<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>this is for the lions by princegrantaire</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23130658">this is for the lions</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/princegrantaire/pseuds/princegrantaire'>princegrantaire</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>a world with love [17]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Male Friendship, Old Friends</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 07:15:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,409</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23130658</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/princegrantaire/pseuds/princegrantaire</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>No news is good news, he’s sure Joker would agree, but that’s never been the case with Harvey. He’s sixteen again, stomach tied up in knots because Harvey’s late to school and Bruce has wisely chosen to interpret that as a premature goodbye.</p>
<p>When you’re in the business of lifelines, and Bruce likes to think he is, you get to know them pretty well. Harvey used to be his.</p>
<p>(Harvey's been missing for two days. Bruce worries.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Harvey Dent &amp; Bruce Wayne, Joker (DCU)/Bruce Wayne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>a world with love [17]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1264898</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>this is for the lions</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/slaapkat/gifts">slaapkat</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>HAPPY BIRTHDAY @slaapkat!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! LAST YEAR I WAS TWO DAYS LATE, THIS YEAR (BY SPECIAL REQUEST) I'M APPROXIMATELY TWO DAYS EARLY!!!!!! you're my absolute bestest friend in the world and you deserve all the best things imaginable and i hope this humble fic comes pretty damn close to our ideal bruce/harv! wouldn't be here without all ur encouragement and support (and concepts!!!) &lt;3333333</p>
<p>now for the average reader: this <i>can</i> be read as standalone but somewhat heavily references previous entries in the series, namely <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/18147554">if your heart doesn't fit</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/20259274">it's a quarter past midnight</a>. at its heart, this is good ol "what could've been" angst with my favourite boys so i think you can get the gist of it without reading those! it features established batjokes and a take on the bruce/harv friendship thats an amalgamation of, well, everything that's heartfelt enough out there. hope you enjoy! </p>
<p>(minor tw for implied suicidal thoughts)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It starts in the free fall between skyscrapers. Batman doesn’t fall. On occasion, Bruce does. At a distance, it’s probably funny -- the would-be robbers all tied up on a rooftop, Batman too deep in thought to see he’s stepping off the ledge. It’s a school night, which means he’s been granted the rare grace of having no witnesses to <em>snapchat </em>his descent, even if the certainty that Tim’s gonna find out one way or another persists.</p>
<p>With the rush of wind against the cowl, Bruce keeps thinking. Two days since Harvey broke out, just as many of radio silence. He’s distracted, off his game, and lands hard on someone’s balcony, feels the force of it thrum through his legs before he grapples back to the nearest roof.</p>
<p>Any luck and he’s nothing more than a blur of movement in the night, the myth the city’s made him out to be.</p>
<p>Bruce doesn’t feel much like it.</p>
<p>He’s tense, hopes against hope that no emergencies light up the sky and he gets a rare early night. Yeah, Bruce’s just about ready to go home and crawl in bed with his… <em>clown</em>. No news is good news, he’s sure Joker would agree, but that’s never been the case with Harvey. He’s sixteen again, stomach tied up in knots because Harvey’s late to school and Bruce has wisely chosen to interpret that as a premature goodbye.</p>
<p>When you’re in the business of lifelines, and Bruce likes to think he is, you get to know them pretty well. Harvey used to be his.</p>
<p>Couple of years ago Bruce would’ve been back on the streets within the hour, all dressed up like the kinda sleazeball Gotham’s underworld’s likely to eagerly welcome into their ranks. He’s too tired and too sore for quick costume changes these days but he’s tempted to bring out Matches Malone anyway, for Harvey. What he does, instead, is draw the cape tight around himself and wish Joker didn’t possess a complete inability to text.</p>
<p>He could go home.</p>
<p>Two sleepless nights in a row never did anyone any good. He <em>should </em>go home.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>“Alfred, I’m not going home yet,” Bruce says over the comms, caught in a five car pile-up on the way to Bat-Burger. “Anyone still up?”</p>
<p>“Just the Joker, I imagine, sir.”</p>
<p>Six years and they’re yet to get rid of that pesky <em>the</em>. Bruce doesn’t have it in him to correct Alfred, not tonight, and he knows disapproval when he sees it. A lot of tears have gone into the matter, there’s little else to give. “You should turn in, too. Nothing big happening tonight,” is what Bruce settles on. It’s <em>probably </em>the truth, otherwise Batman wouldn’t have finally made it to the drive-thru, in urgent need of hanging up before Alfred puts two and two together.</p>
<p>“Very good, sir.”</p>
<p>The comms go silent. Bruce can’t shake off the feeling of having gotten away with something. It’s not an unfamiliar rush, though it’s almost always been associated with sneaking in the kind of food Alfred, and later Batman, would never permit him. Some things never change.</p>
<p>As he gets his bat-burgers and drives on, Gotham traffic agreeing with him for once, Bruce wonders whether those quick dismissals will ever do anything but wound.</p>
<p>Joker’s worst fault, according to Alfred, is his very existence. Bruce suspects it’s less that the former Clown Prince of Crime is sharing their home and more that he’s chosen to spend his life with a man but that’s not the kind of concern he can ever raise, not when he’s been told Talia, Silver, Andrea and Selina hadn’t been right for him either. Harvey, too, had been deemed a bad influence.</p>
<p>It’s hard to tell why he’s dwelling on this <em>now</em>, ten to fifteen minutes away from an early night. Most days, Bruce is happy -- with the boys, with Joker. Batman’s no longer the death sentence he was envisioned to be and he rarely thinks about the remnants of scars on his wrists some thirty-something years later.</p>
<p>Harvey missing in action though, if it can be called that, that’s bringing something back. Desperation, mainly. Harvey had been his first friend, his <em>only </em>friend, and maybe Bruce’s spent too long trying to keep it that way to give up any time soon.</p>
<p>Despite everything, he’d kept up with the weekly visits. Week after week after week for years on end, good days in the rec room, bad days behind glass, he’d been there for all of it. He’d <em>wanted </em>to be there for all of it. Maybe that’s why he just doesn’t… get it. Sure, Bruce had run a little late Friday night on account of Damian’s school play and a worrying number of eco-terrorists attending but he’d made it to Arkham just in time and Harvey had seemed fine, relieved to see him, same as usual. He likes to think he knows the signs of an upcoming episode.</p>
<p>And if he doesn’t--</p>
<p>They’re back at square one.</p>
<p>Bruce can’t even tell if he’s helping Harvey anymore. That’s what stings. He misses his friend.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>“You’re sweaty,” Joker says, highly matter-of-fact as he backs away from an attempt to spoon Bruce.</p>
<p>Bruce is, in fact, sweaty. Among other things, such as bruised and aching all over, he’s also shirtless. There had been an aborted attempt to shower, at which point it’d become obvious that all remaining energy was better used in the service of scarfing down his bat-burgers and jokerized fries in bed, lest they go cold.</p>
<p>It’s a full hour since he’s made it home. On the verge of passing out, his mind still races. He should’ve kept looking.</p>
<p>There’s an urgency in his gut, a bone-deep nausea. Harvey shouldn’t be alone, not now, not ever. Bruce breathes slow, eyes screwed shut. In and out. Again and again. Harvey might not want to see him. That, too, is always a possibility. Bruce knows it’s not his fault, just like he knows he’ll never get that scream out of his head, still echoing from the day he’d seen Gotham’s brightest star burn to death. He’d just <em>stood </em>there.</p>
<p>He’d just--</p>
<p>“You okay?”</p>
<p>He flinches at the hand on his shoulder, Joker’s cold, feather-light touch.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Bruce breathes out and rolls over, smiles in silent apology. “You ever been to Al’s Diner in the Narrows?”</p>
<p>No, he can’t tell what comes over him either. Al’s Diner has long faded into the recesses of his mind, unseen since prom night, forgotten for just as long. Still, there it is, he and Harvey laughing over pie, messing with the jukebox, sneaking out on rare late nights, alive and free and real.</p>
<p>Coincidentally, something seems to grip Joker, too. He’s frowning, <em>hard</em>.</p>
<p>Joker knows the city as well as he does, if not more so. The Narrows, in particular, are his more than they’ll ever be Bruce’s -- something like home, he’d said, unclear whether that’s from <em>before </em>or from the many months spent on its streets. He’s got the same accent as Harvey, less diluted from years of stifling it. Harvey hadn’t wanted the Narrows, Joker wears them on his sleeve. It’s not one of those things Bruce’s likely to ever understand.</p>
<p>“Al’s Diner,” Joker mumbles then trails off in a prolonged <em>hmmm</em>. “No? Maybe. No, definitely no.”</p>
<p>Not too convincing.</p>
<p>“Me and Harv used to go there, back in-- in high school,” Bruce says, doesn’t question what Joker doesn’t know. “I wanted to go there tonight,” he admits, “I got Bat-Burger instead.”</p>
<p>If Joker glances at the bag still at the foot of the bed, he doesn’t say a thing, more charitable than Bruce feels he deserves. He’s nodding though, maybe uncertain, maybe worse. “High school. You’ve never mentioned that before.”</p>
<p>“Yeah. Believe it or not, I went.”</p>
<p>Joker bursts out laughing, <em>really </em>laughing, and Bruce grins wide because there’s always a sense of victory in making Joker happy. It’s warm, he’d needed a little warmth. Longing for more, he pulls Joker into a quick kiss, fond as he draws him close.</p>
<p>“Hey, you want me to like, I don’t know, call up old henchmen or something? Ask around?” Joker offers, brushing a skeletal hand through Bruce’s hair.</p>
<p>That’s the catch.</p>
<p><em>A</em> catch, anyway.</p>
<p>There’s no reason to put Joker through that. He’s <em>just </em>gotten out, it wouldn’t be fair, not to him and certainly not to Harvey, who needs to come around on his own. Bruce knows that. He has to know it. It’s just--</p>
<p>“You don’t have to do that. Seriously.” He kisses Joker’s forehead, eyes a little glassy, not quite here nor anywhere else. “Thank you and hey, we should sleep! You’ve been up for what, three days at this point?” Bruce has no idea how Joker still does it and, frankly, most days he doesn’t wanna know. Some secrets are horrifying enough to remain Joker’s alone. “Can I still hold you even if I’m <em>sweaty</em>?”</p>
<p>“I… will take that into consideration,” Joker says, smiling. “How about I hold you?”</p>
<p>Yeah, <em>significantly </em>more charitable than Bruce deserves.</p>
<p>“I’d love that.”</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>Bruce jumps awake to the tune of breaking glass. He takes a moment to breathe, feels his heart racing in his chest. Next to him, Joker snores, worryingly mundane.</p>
<p>It’s a long moment until reality resumes its course -- Bruce thinks of alarms, sirens, endless security measures piling up over the years and hears nothing. He’d deactivated them all, remembers it belatedly. It must be Harvey. Straining for signs of life, Bruce finds the dark keeping perfectly still.</p>
<p>He pulls on a shirt as he gets out of bed, slow like he’s sleepwalking, like he’s got all night.</p>
<p>Joker doesn’t even stir, out cold for at least the next couple of hours. He deserves it, Bruce thinks, hopes the rest of the household has followed his lead. He needs this to be easy. Just this once, just for now.</p>
<p>Hard to tell what's been broken, Bruce follows his gut.</p>
<p>The study on the ground floor, formerly belonging to one Thomas Wayne, is rarely occupied. There had been, however, nights when Bruce would sink into the big, plush chair in the corner, stare out the window and talk to his father. As a teenager, mostly, and then, again, on that first failed night as the Bat, praying for something that might never come.</p>
<p>Tonight doesn’t feel too different.</p>
<p>Bruce can’t tell what he expects when he opens the door. A bat and a broken window, maybe.</p>
<p>There’s no bat screeching or flapping of shadowy wings but he does catch sight of the silhouette leaning heavily against the wall, odd and elongated in the moonlight. The window <em>is</em> broken but Bruce pays it no mind as he rushes forward, a strangled <em>Harv </em>living and dying in his throat.</p>
<p>It’s Harvey. Miraculously, it’s Harvey. The scarred side’s turned away but Bruce recognises the look in his good eye, the sheer exhaustion, like he’s somewhere in-between the tail end of the kind of all-nighters they used to pull in what little time Bruce had spent with him in college and a chase that’s long lost its thrill. He’s panting hard, though the climb’s not too taxing, and clutching at an arm.</p>
<p>He remembers the days when Harvey would climb all the way up to his third floor bedroom -- back when Bruce had just regained the scant privileges of closed doors, easy like he’d been meant for the kind of trapezing Bruce himself hadn’t yet even dreamed of.</p>
<p>“S-Sor<em>ry</em> about the.. the window.”</p>
<p>Oh, god.</p>
<p>Harvey’s slurring his words, swaying at a closer glance. It’s not the first time he’s showed up drunk, stinking of cheap alcohol, probably won’t be the last but it never breaks Bruce’s heart any less. He might’ve expected it, counting on it despite himself as he’d forgone all security the moment he’d made it home.</p>
<p>And yet, it keeps on hurting.</p>
<p>“Hey, hey, Harv, it’s okay,” he starts, soft, “C’mere. Please.”</p>
<p>Bruce waits, turns on a lamp when Harvey doesn’t make a move. The light’s faint but it’s enough to see he’s worse for wear than expected, clad in one of his older suits, washed-out and tattered. It makes sense, in a way, if he’d hit up former hideouts first, no henchmen, laying low for whatever reason. <em>That’s</em> what Bruce can’t figure out, why--</p>
<p>Something’s dripping on the hardwood floor.</p>
<p>Instinctively, Bruce glances down and stares uncomprehending at a steady trickle of blood. He thinks of how it’s been one of Gotham’s rare clear skies, never a commodity around here, and, for the longest time, can’t reconcile the lack of rain with what must be Harvey’s damp sleeve.</p>
<p>And then, it hits him all at once.</p>
<p>“It’s nothin’,” Harvey says when he catches him looking. He turns around and Bruce doesn’t flinch, never has, at the burns now facing him, though he does sigh as Harvey leans back, uses the wall to keep himself standing.</p>
<p>“Harv--”</p>
<p>“Can I stay here? Jus’ a couple of hours, for… for old times’ sake.”</p>
<p>Yeah, Bruce remembers impromptu sleepovers and bruises gone unquestioned, remembers wanting to ask Harvey to spend more than just the night in the manor. The very same urge intervenes now, too. “You’re always welcome here,” Bruce says instead because he’s never had in him to ask Harvey to stay.</p>
<p><em>Really </em>stay.</p>
<p>“Just-- lemme take a look at you, okay?” he adds, the words pushed out of him like he’s worried a stray moment might make all the difference.</p>
<p>“I told you it’s fine.”</p>
<p>But Two-Face doesn’t come out to play and Bruce gets to wrap an arm around Harvey, prop him up as he leads him out of the study and into the nearest living room, where he’s convinced there’s gotta be stashed at least one first-aid kit. They’re all over, generally, but perhaps Alfred hadn’t seen an oft-disused study as a priority.</p>
<p>Harvey doesn’t struggle but he’s not much for conversation either, unsure on his own feet. Bruce, who’s spent the better part of his childhood keeping silent, doesn’t find it necessary to ask how he’s doing, knows the answer won’t be anything he’d like to hear. Eventually, they make it to the living room in one piece and he lets Harvey crash on the couch, still clutching at his arm, keeping pressure on what must be more than just a shallow cut, as he goes through every drawer he can find.</p>
<p>“I think these last meds are working,” Harvey mumbles. “More than usual, anyway.”</p>
<p>Bruce doesn’t let his heart skip a beat. He’s heard it before, he’s hoped for it before. What he does is offer Harvey a smile and sit down next to him, first-aid kit in hand.</p>
<p>It takes everything he’s got not to ask why Harvey left if the meds were working.</p>
<p>“Can I take a look?” Bruce asks, nodding towards Harvey’s arm. He’s here now, that’s what matters, medication or no medication. It’s more than Bruce could’ve asked for.</p>
<p>He holds onto Harvey’s hand as he makes to roll up his sleeve but, for a minute too long, Bruce freezes -- unused to the limp weight of it, the warmth and the feel of the scars. Joker’s hands are downright glacial and always skeletal but <em>soft </em>from a life-long predisposition towards gloves, neither scarred nor calloused as much as the rest of him might be. It’s been a good while since Bruce’s gotten this close to anyone else.</p>
<p>A beat.</p>
<p>Bruce clears his throat, awkward, and firmly doesn’t think about how no scars or burns seem befitting of the city’s youngest DA, their <em>Apollo</em>. How there wouldn’t be any to begin with if he’d just--</p>
<p>If he’d just… <em>what</em>? Bruce had just stood there.</p>
<p>Part of him is <em>still </em>just standing there, rooted to the spot in a soon-to-be empty courtroom, sinking in the sickening smell of burning flesh.</p>
<p>The gash on Harvey’s arm is bad, not the worse Bruce’s ever seen but <em>bad</em>, deep and trailing up his arm. The broken window must’ve caught him as he’d fought his way in, reopening new-old cuts, only recognisable amongst the mess of scars that is Harvey’s left side due to the blood welling up even now.</p>
<p>“Does it hurt?”</p>
<p>It <em>should </em>but Bruce doesn’t know what kind of nerve damage he’s dealing with here, what’s been done to Harvey and what he’s done to himself in the ensuing years since Bruce’s memorised that medical chart in Gotham General Hospital.</p>
<p>Harvey nods though, terse through gritted teeth, and Bruce allows himself a relieved sigh. It could always be worse.</p>
<p>That’s what he keeps telling himself as he gets to work, doesn’t ask for more because he can’t, doesn’t speak either. Harvey needs-- a hospital, a real doctor, an <em>Alfred </em>but, as things currently stand, he’s stuck with Bruce’s clumsy expertise. He does the best he can to patch him up, watches Harvey flinch his way through the rubbing alcohol and the stitches.</p>
<p>“You’re almost done,” Bruce says, eventually, aiming for a smile as he turns to reach for the roll of gauze, “I just have to--”</p>
<p>There’s a drop of blood just above his wrist, more on his fingers. Bruce’s own fault for forgoing the gloves he hadn’t been able to find but, all at once, he feels sick to his stomach.</p>
<p>An abrupt lurch and, then, roiling nausea. The world turned on its head.</p>
<p>It’s not the blood on his mother’s wrist that he’s thinking of, as he’d held her hand and kneeled back in the alley he’s never quite left, but-- there’d been so much blood on Harvey. Sometimes, Bruce has learned despite his best efforts, you can’t come back from too much blood or, otherwise, it leaves traces of itself behind, invisible stains where it’s gushed and flowed minutes before. It’s going to leave a scar.</p>
<p>“Just need to--”</p>
<p>Maybe that’s why Bruce’s lost himself along the way.</p>
<p>He grabs the gauze, bandages Harvey’s arm with the sort of precarious care that’s only ever been reserved for him. “There’s gonna be a scar, I think,” Bruce says, manages to get the words out with steady determination -- all Batman’s demeanor -- and, just to render it all in vain, proceeds to cut himself off with an odd, muffled sob. He can’t look at Harvey as he covers his mouth, surprised by the wetness on his cheeks, unable to tell why a profound sense of <em>guilt </em>is tearing him open.</p>
<p>A couple of drawn-out breaths do very little.</p>
<p>He’d been seventeen the first time he’d cried in front of Harvey. Bruce can’t remember why it’d happened, only that it had and that he’d started crying harder at the hand on his shoulder, closeness like he’d never known before.</p>
<p>It’s then that Harvey must make a sound, some imperceptible exhale, because next thing he knows he’s cradling the softness around Bruce’s face. He’s never grown out of it. No matter Alfred’s reassurances or Batman’s regime, some part of Bruce’s physiology must’ve decided baby-fat would be a permanent addition. Not exactly a complaint, not when it gets his face held often and vigorously. </p>
<p>The problem with <em>Harvey </em>holding his face though is that, against whatever Bruce’s own wishes might be, it has much the same effect as that hand on his shoulder so long ago. He screws his eyes shut, doesn’t manage to will the tears away -- a little flushed, embarrassed and frustrated with himself at a glance.</p>
<p>Harvey’s grip is gentle, purposely right-handed. It grounds Bruce just enough. He presses his own hand against Harvey’s when he feels the warmth slipping away. They’re too close and it’s too late and too near the bone.</p>
<p>If he doesn’t open his eyes, he can pretend it’ll last, that there’s no scars and no burns.</p>
<p>“I’m <em>so </em>sorry,” Bruce gasps out, hoarse with an empty sob. It’s stuck in his throat, despair that can’t quite make it through.</p>
<p>“It’s okay. You’re okay, Bruce.” Harvey’s sobered up somewhat, there’s a smile in his voice. “Look at me.” He does. “You’re okay. Shh, you’re okay. Come on, just breathe with me.” Bruce does. He’d do anything Harvey asked, if he’d just say the words. It’s odd to be back here again, being taken care of again.</p>
<p>That’s what Harvey does, isn’t it?</p>
<p>What he’s always done.</p>
<p>Bruce had spent the majority of his teenage years under the impression that he would, voluntarily or otherwise, eventually find himself in Harvey’s current position, locked up in some ward like he’d just narrowly avoided the summer he’d turned ten. He had been, between the two of them, the mental case. No need to mince words. Bruce knows it, just like he knows he still feels like it. Years of not speaking, the constant tears, the <em>moods</em>. It’d all been there, it should’ve been him and yet, here’s Harvey, holding him close after all these years.</p>
<p>“I missed you.”</p>
<p>It’s hard to tell whether he’d meant to say it out loud.</p>
<p>Harvey stiffens, then drops his hand, moves no further away nor any closer. Something in Bruce’s chest clenches. He wipes his tears away, tries not to think of juvenile fears that lay closer to the truth than intended.</p>
<p>“I missed you, too,” Harvey whispers after a moment’s silence. “I thought I’d miss the man you used to be but you’re still… you.”</p>
<p>Maybe it’s the alcohol talking. He makes it sound so much like a compliment.</p>
<p>Bruce sits up, busies himself with putting the first-aid kit away, and doesn’t quite know what to make of it. “You’re drunk, Harv,” he points out, less of a joke than he means it to be. Then again, he’s never been so great at those. His mind’s still just an echo of guilt, the reverberations of being responsible for another scar.</p>
<p>“Not anymore, no.” Harvey leans back, inspects the bandage. It’s still him, strangely lucid. “But I’d like to be.”</p>
<p>It doesn’t seem like much of an episode, here and now. Lately, during those weekly visits in the asylum, Harvey <em>had </em>really been mostly himself. Bruce had attributed it to luck, careful to count his blessings, but it could be more, it could really be the medication. Hope is hard to swallow.</p>
<p>“Sorry,” Bruce says as he shakes his head, faintly flushed from crying even as a smile tugs at the corner of his lips, “I doubt we’ve even got champagne. I don’t really-- drink, these days.”</p>
<p>He hadn’t before either, not when he and Harvey were inseparable.</p>
<p>But after Jason, after the night he’d emptied a long-untouched liquor cabinet in one go and the many that had come after, he’d had made something of a vow. Tim has dragged him out from the depths, Bruce only had to ensure it would never happen again. So, he’d stuck to light entertainment and a handful of excuses. It changed his life in no great way, save for a prolonged sense of safety. No need to wonder what he’s capable of.</p>
<p>“Bad experience?” Harvey asks, agreeable as ever.</p>
<p>“Something like that.”</p>
<p>Bruce sits back down, closer than necessary. It’s all too easy to believe these <em>are </em>the good old days. He has to ask, to shatter the illusion. “Why did you escape?”</p>
<p>There it is, all the cards on the table.</p>
<p>It’s startling how often Bruce’s ruined things for himself with words alone. He’s a detective, he’s made a career out of asking-- the <em>wrong </em>questions, usually. The ones no one wants to hear.</p>
<p>“You and Joker still together?” is what Harvey gives him after a moment too long of what Bruce would happily classify as agonising silence. Frankly, it throws him off. He’s discussed Joker with Harvey exactly once and never again, during that world tour of coming out to strangers and close friends alike, countless promises that he hadn’t lost his mind despite all evidence to the contrary.</p>
<p>He’s still waiting to hear back on that one, the whole possible mind loss.</p>
<p>The thing about life by Joker’s side is that it’s...easy. Hard to get started, hard to keep going but, after a point, it’d come naturally. <em>Easy</em>. Bruce is happy in ways he’d never seen before, happy in ways he doesn’t remember his own parents being. For the longest time, domestic bliss had taken the most obvious form and, just maybe, that’s why it’s seemed so out of reach.</p>
<p>Past girlfriends and near-fiancées, of which he’s got a veritable collection, had wanted one or the other. Batman or Bruce. Oddly enough, usually the former. Joker, not unlike Bruce himself, had mostly needed <em>someone</em>. They’d fallen into an extension of the warm intimacy he’d only known once before in another life, with Harvey.</p>
<p>On occasion, he still dreams of coming home to the DA and the not-quite-proverbial picket fence but those days are long gone. Bruce’s content. It feels nothing short of betrayal.</p>
<p>“Yeah.” He looks away. “He’s sleeping. I think. You, um, never really know with him.”</p>
<p>Harvey kindly doesn’t point out the fact that Joker looks like he hasn’t slept a day in his life. Bruce appreciates it, even if it’s hard to stop thinking about that imagined future now that it’s within his grasp. Long before he’d understood his feelings weren’t the death sentence Alfred had implied them to be, he’d just sort of-- assumed Harvey would be there for it all</p>
<p>And then, later, Bruce had assumed Harvey would <em>be </em>his future. The possibility lingers.</p>
<p>“You look good, Bruce,” Harvey says, “Happy.” His hand’s in his pocket, undoubtedly grasping the coin, and Bruce’s stomach sinks just a little.</p>
<p>He puts his hand over Harvey’s, just in case.</p>
<p>“Stay the night? I can bring you blankets and stuff down here, if you’d... want that,” Bruce offers, too aware it’s a risk in every sense of the word, just like he knows the <em>couple of hours</em> that’d been requested of him are in danger of expiring all too soon. The fear of discovery doesn’t outweigh the matter of where Harvey might end up in the absence of the manor. “At least it’d mean no Arkham,” he adds, hasty, like it could just sweeten the deal.</p>
<p>“Okay.”</p>
<p>That’s-- it feels like he’s spent his whole life waiting for that <em>okay</em>. The fear stands down. Bruce can have this, one more night knowing Harvey’s safe. It’s Batman that’s always kept his emotions in check, the cowl hides what mere self-control can’t but, without it, Bruce beams, doesn’t bother fighting the relief either.</p>
<p>If Joker’s taught him anything, it’s that there’s no such thing as being too open for your own good.</p>
<p>He squeezes Harvey’s good hand, once.</p>
<p>“It’ll be just a second. Don’t move!” Bruce is almost childishly giddy as he makes his way out of the room, excited like it’s their first sleepover all over again. It really does feel like a beginning, of sorts.</p>
<p>Probably why he runs -- read: walks face first -- into Joker, who appears to be patrolling the upstairs hallway, armed with one of the little gargoyle statues Bruce had picked up at Gotham airport a couple of years back and now resides on a shelf in his bedroom.</p>
<p>Their bedroom.</p>
<p><em>The </em>bedroom.</p>
<p>“He’s here, isn’t he?” Joker asks, brandishing the miniature gargoyle at Bruce, less asleep than initially believed. His shirt’s buttoned up wrong, though it doesn’t quite feel like the right time to point that out.</p>
<p>“Harvey? Yeah, he’s in the living room.”</p>
<p>The manor houses a multitude of living rooms but only one has been, well, consistently <em>lived </em>in. Bruce trusts Joker knows what he means as he reaches out to fix his shirt, an irresistible temptation to the trained eye. For his part, Joker doesn’t move much, merely tilts his head and lowers the gargoyle, like he wants to see where this is going.</p>
<p>So does Bruce.</p>
<p>“And you’re gonna spend the night with ‘im, right?” It’s easy to tell Joker doesn’t <em>mean </em>to sound bitter, it just stumbles out of him. Bruce’s heard him cruel and sad and everything in-between, knows this isn’t it. He’s just being--</p>
<p><em>Protective</em>.</p>
<p>It’s not an uncommon warmth that blooms in Bruce’s chest just now, the reminder that he’s chosen to share his life with Joker and that he’s come to love the boys and the house as much as Bruce does, that it’s all theirs. In fact, Joker’s parked in front of Tim’s room, which is admirable enough in itself. He’s either decided Damian can take care of himself or he’s come to understand that Tim’s wary of good ol’ uncle Harv. Bruce feels a little guilty, just now. He should’ve thought of it himself.</p>
<p>“He’s got nowhere to go, Joker,” Bruce says, excitement melting out of him by the second, “You know what that’s like.”</p>
<p>Whether that’s a low blow, it remains to be seen.</p>
<p>He’s told Joker about Harvey and himself before, the parts he’d been able to part with.</p>
<p>“Yeah, I also know he’s drunk!” A glance at the door, wide-eyed, and Joker lowers his voice, “He’s drunk every time he comes here, okay? Last time he pulled a gun on me.” The gargoyle once again intervenes between them, though Bruce fails to feel particularly threatened.</p>
<p>Last time, which had coincided with a particularly bad manic episode and a mass-escape at the asylum, Joker had also tried to touch Harvey’s face. It hadn’t been the first time he’d done it nor the first time he’d had a gun pointed at his head for his efforts. Bruce still firmly believes Harvey wouldn’t have fired but, in hindsight, Joker’s got a point, which doesn’t take much of a herculean effort to admit these days.</p>
<p>“I promise I’ll keep him downstairs.”</p>
<p>That’s the only reassurance he’s got and it’s lacklustre at best. Bruce doesn’t ever think about promises he can’t keep. He wants Harvey to be safe as much as he wants to stand with Joker. No easy way out here.</p>
<p>“Please,” Bruce adds. “He’ll be gone by morning.”</p>
<p>Joker sighs, kind of deflates with it, all energy draining out of him. “Fine.” He nods, like he’s convincing himself. “Okay, Brucie. Hope you know whatever happens, it’s all on you,” he says, extending an arm to caress Bruce’s face. He’s getting a <em>lot </em>of that tonight. “Hey, have you been crying? You’re all warm.”</p>
<p>“N-No?”</p>
<p>Yeah, Bruce’s not the best liar. It’s a fact he only becomes aware of at the worst of times.</p>
<p>All Joker does, though, is kiss him sweetly, sharing a breath for a moment or two before he pulls back and lets Bruce pass. He doesn’t make a move. It’s an oddly final gesture, Bruce can’t figure out what to make of it. “We can talk in the morning,” he promises, pushing a strand of hair off Joker’s forehead, “and you can ask whatever you wanna ask. Deal?”</p>
<p>“Deal,” Joker agrees, smiling just enough.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>Bruce can’t say for sure where they keep the spare blankets. There are certain intricacies of the manor that only Alfred is privy to, this among them. Similarly, he doesn’t know whether they have any spare <em>pillows </em>to begin with.</p>
<p>In hindsight, that’s mainly why he opts to strip his own side of the bed of its pillow and deprive Joker of the duvet. It’s a noble cause, noble enough that he can’t look Joker in the eye when he passes by him on the way back downstairs, risking a sheepish kiss on the cheek as he goes. Something tells him Joker’s not likely to leave his post any time soon.</p>
<p>Not a bad place to be, all things considered.</p>
<p>The door’s closed, though Bruce can’t remember closing it behind him. He’d left in a hurry, disoriented with swirling possibilities, maybe he’d just-- shut it on instinct, the kind of thing your brain skips over when it’s been deemed unimportant. It’s just a closed door. He freezes all the same, feels ridiculous at the sudden urge to knock on his own living room door. It couldn’t <em>hurt</em>, right?</p>
<p>Right.</p>
<p>Bruce does knock, because that’s the kind of man Alfred’s raised him to be, and enters, cautious. Harvey hasn’t vanished into thin air. In fact, he’s exactly where Bruce’s left him.</p>
<p>He breathes, he’s allowed to now.</p>
<p>“Hey, Harv,” Bruce says, shutting the door behind him. Ah, there it is. Instinct. Not a sign of the mysterious disappearance of his best-friend-turned-wanted-criminal. “Thanks for, um, sticking around.” It’s distinctly awkward saying it, as is the hope that Harvey knows this means the world to him.</p>
<p>That it’s always meant that much.</p>
<p>Careful, he places the pillow and haphazardly folded duvet on the couch then sits down heavily, watches Harvey stare at nothing. The coin’s laying on the floor -- heads. Bruce’s got a pretty good idea of what he’d been flipping for.</p>
<p>Always hard to tell what’s to be done.</p>
<p>Bruce puts his hand on Harvey’s knee, relishes in the warmth of any point of contact.</p>
<p>“Hey,” he repeats, so very nearly a whisper. No answer comes. In his many years of service as the Bat and the many more as Harvey’s friend, Bruce has learned there’s a very fine line between preventing the kind of self-destruction they’re both prone to and outright cruelty. Trick coins and playing cards and dice have often been the latter, no matter the quantity of feigned ignorance on the subject. Bruce knows what it does to Harvey, has known for a while.</p>
<p>He bends down and picks up the coin, traces its contours with his thumb. Just like Harvey, it’s grown more scarred since the last time Bruce’s seen it. Passing through the unthinkable, he puts the coin in Harvey’s hand.</p>
<p>“It’s been twenty-six years,” Harvey mumbles as he blinks down owlishly at the coin. His voice has gone scratchy with disuse, more so than any decades-old damage.</p>
<p>And speaking of decades, there’s no easy way to say that he hasn’t got the faintest idea what Harvey’s talking about. It hasn’t been twenty-six years since his accident, Bruce’s somewhere in the vicinity of certain, partially because he’s counted every anniversary and he’s yet to come up short.</p>
<p>He squeezes Harvey’s knee then lets go, sighs as he leans back.</p>
<p>For all insomnia’s done for him tonight, he’s starting to crash. An old t-shirt and sweatpants are no match for Batman’s armour, Bruce’s body has decided he’s comfortable enough to slide right into exhaustion. No big surprise there.</p>
<p>“I don’t know what you’re-- twenty-six years since what, Harv?” Bruce asks, eventually, shooting a longing glance at his very own pillow.</p>
<p>There’s no way to tell whether he’s feeding into old delusions, playing along to the same old tune, but Harvey <em>sounds </em>lucid, as much himself as he’s been since the broken window in the dark. It’s more than any meager benefit of doubt, Bruce trusts Harvey because--</p>
<p>Well, simply put, he always has.</p>
<p>“You left.” Harvey draws in a sharp breath, like the stuttering beginnings of tears. “I didn’t think you were coming back.”</p>
<p>Just like that, Bruce’s wide awake. The coin’s been shoved back in Harvey’s pocket, quick and unseen, the magician’s grace Joker partakes in on occasion as well. Bruce’s life has often been worked around <em>not </em>having to leave Gotham, his love of airports rarely extends to what succeeds them and business trips are only fun as far as the nearest food court will take him.</p>
<p>At any rate, he’s never been gone for long, definitely not long enough to warrant--</p>
<p>Oh.</p>
<p><em>That</em>.</p>
<p>Ra’s al Ghul and what Bruce had, in his younger days, optimistically dubbed <em>the ninja cult</em>. The League of Assassins has a name, he’s intimately acquainted with the fact now, but at nineteen, fresh from dropping out at the tail-end of his first semester in college, Bruce had merely been excited to head out into the world, live, join ninja cults to his heart’s content. Harvey’s the price he’d had to pay.</p>
<p>Yeah, excited and a little heartbroken, though back then it’d seemed like nothing more than the same weight that’d been dragging him down for years, that had only ever eased around Harvey. Then, after Harvey had met Gilda, Bruce had selfishly felt himself drowning again.</p>
<p>He’d left.</p>
<p>And, when he’d come back, Gilda was nowhere to be found and Harvey welcomed him with open arms. Bruce remembers the relief and doesn’t feel it. The guilt chokes him up once more.</p>
<p>“I’m not leaving, Harvey,” he gasps out, “I’m not. Never again.” He’s turned to face Harvey, desperately wants to reach out, <em>make </em>him see the truth, and can’t tell what he’s allowed to touch. <em>If</em> he’s allowed to touch in the first place. He never has. “That night on the roof, Harv, I’ve never stopped thinking about it. <em>Every </em>night with you, really.”</p>
<p>Harvey looks-- right through him, here and not quite, like Two-Face’s got some say in the matter. It’s been a couple of days since Arkham, maybe the medication’s well and thoroughly worn off, the alcohol couldn’t have helped.</p>
<p>Or, maybe, Bruce’s just dredged up something acutely unpleasant.</p>
<p>“Had to make sure.” Harvey meets his eyes, handsome as ever because Bruce’s never had the heart to think of his face as anything close to <em>ruined</em>. It’s just Harvey Dent, who’d first showed him the city and who’d first introduced him to himself. “That’s why I broke out. I-- I had to make sure you’re still here.”</p>
<p>“I’m here.”</p>
<p>He is.</p>
<p>God, he <em>is</em>.</p>
<p>Harvey had kept him anchored for so long, even on bad days, <em>especially </em>on bad days, when he came so close to believing he’d had the right idea at ten, through every crisis and every moment Bruce thought he’d never have. Returning the favour is the least he can do. He takes both of Harvey’s hands in his, squeezes just tight enough, like Joker’s told him helps sometimes.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry I left,” Bruce starts and he’s never been so good with words but he <em>needs </em>to try, here and now, for Harvey, “I know we can’t get those years back and-- I don’t know what might’ve happened if I’d stayed. I <em>am</em> here now though, Harv, I’m here and you’re still my best friend and I’m never leaving again, okay? I promise.”</p>
<p>It’s all he can do.</p>
<p>Harvey glances away, wrenches his hands out of Bruce’s grip with an odd brand of cornered desperation. Heart in his throat, Bruce can’t tell if he’s losing him.</p>
<p>“I’m not taking you to Arkham.” It’s a rash decision. Some nights, there’s nothing left but last resorts. “If you wanna go, I’ll drive you there in the morning, we’ll walk in together but I’m not making you go. No Batman, not anymore.”</p>
<p>And that, at last, gets a sign of life out of Harvey, just not the one Bruce had been hoping for.</p>
<p>The coin lands between them on the couch -- heads, again. The sound is dull, muffled by cushions, and Bruce almost wants it to clatter on the floor, longs for a shock of reality.</p>
<p>For once, there’s nothing more to say. Bruce expects loss, braces himself for it.</p>
<p>What Harvey does, against all reason, is reach for the pillow Bruce had brought and simply-- <em>hold </em>it. “Is this yours?”</p>
<p>He’s not leaving.</p>
<p>Bruce laughs, it’s easy when there’s no weight on his chest, relief eating away at guilt. His hands sort of shake, like Joker’s do sometimes when it’s all too much and he thinks he might get it now, learns more about life-or-death here than out on the streets. “Yeah,” he says, smiling wide like he’s come too far to stop, “Sorry if it’s, uh, sweaty. Joker says I’m sweaty.”</p>
<p>Even <em>that’s </em>hilarious, now in the waning hours of despair.</p>
<p>“It’s fine, I don’t know how much I’ll be sleeping anyway,” Harvey admits, smiling too. Bruce can’t remember the last time he’s seen that smile, kind even with Two-Face’s permanent scowl, a certain brightness in his eyes. There’s always a sense of wonder to Harvey’s rare, real smiles.</p>
<p>Arkham can wait. If it were up to Bruce, help would be found elsewhere. They’ve tried it before, the surgeries and the first-rate therapists, the attempts at a new life untainted by everything that’s come before but it’s never quite worked out, there’d always been something. Two-Face. A chance sighting of Gilda. Harvey’s late father. Fate, one might call it. In the few quiet months of his latest institualization, Harvey’s confessed to wanting to give the asylum a real try this time.</p>
<p>Bruce believes every <em>this time</em> that comes his way like his life depends on it, and it often does, but he can’t help wondering if it's their best option, whether Harvey still feels the same way.</p>
<p>That, too, can wait.</p>
<p>“You hungry?” Bruce asks. It’s never not worked on a Robin suffering through the aftermath of a particularly rough night, no reason it shouldn’t apply here.</p>
<p>Harvey seems to consider that, genuinely so, like the thought hasn’t crossed his mind before. “Yeah,” he decides. “Yeah, I actually am.” Inexplicably, it comes as a surprise to both of them. Bruce doesn’t know where to put this sudden delight, he wants to hug Harvey and thinks better of it.</p>
<p>“Okay, well, I’ve promised certain interested parties,” and this is where Bruce coughs for show, Joker’s name escaping somewhere in-between, “that I’d keep you downstairs so I can’t offer you Bat-Burger leftovers but I’m <em>pretty </em>sure we’ve got something in the kitchen.” They usually do, Alfred’s learned to adapt and shop for the demands of two teenage boys and the Batman. He chuckles as he leads Harvey out, feels-- <em>easy </em>and light on his feet.</p>
<p>“Y’know, I kinda remember the way,” Harvey remarks, carefully neutral.</p>
<p>There’s a choice here, the necessary balance of a tightrope. It means too much to Bruce.</p>
<p>“Could’ve gotten yourself a snack this whole time, huh?” is what he settles on, careful like Harvey had been. It <em>sounds </em>like the right choice. Harvey bumps his shoulder against his and they’re laughing like it’s that golden age of teenage nights and neither thinks of all the suffocating loss.</p>
<p>The kitchen’s just around the corner, quiet save for the hum of the fridge and Bruce’s stumbling attempt to find the lightswitch. It takes a couple of tries.</p>
<p>Harvey hops up on the counter, casual like he might’ve done a lifetime ago. His sleeve is still stained red where it’s hitched up, right above Bruce’s clumsy stitches. No tie today, Bruce notes because he hadn’t had the chance at first sight, wonders vaguely whether the DA left behind rebels at the thought. The slump of his shoulders is much more the kid he’d grown up with than Two-Face, who carries himself with the mobster confidence of yesteryear.</p>
<p>A fun act, in different circumstances.</p>
<p>Bruce peers into the fridge, seemingly disappointed by its contents. “We’ve got... Hmm. Apology tacos from Bane? You like that?”</p>
<p>“<em>What</em>.” Harvey sort of splutters, like he’s choking on his own spit, “Apology what--”</p>
<p>“Don’t ask.”</p>
<p>There’s no satisfying explanation, Bruce knows from experience. Last weekend’s concussion, not his first nor his last but merely the latest, hadn’t exactly been anyone’s idea of a good time. To put it plainly, he’d passed out in the field. It’s been known to happen before, maybe too often nowadays, but waking up in Bane’s lair had been a pleasant surprise, not unwelcome by any means. Given their occasional history, of which Bruce preferred the general public to know precious little, Bane had been downright considerate of the injuries he’d caused, he’d even sent Bruce away with supplies for the road.</p>
<p>Hence, leftover tacos. A little stale, maybe, but vastly superior to whatever Arkham’s cafeteria’s got on the menu, he’s sure.</p>
<p>“Bane can cook?” Harvey asks anyway, still caught in a couple of stages of grief.</p>
<p>“Oh, yeah.” Bruce nods sagely, mildly preoccupied with warming up the tacos. “He’s really good.”</p>
<p>And Harvey, good ol’ Harv, looks about as horrified as he had at sixteen when Bruce had proudly informed him he’d watched all five seasons of the <em>Grey Ghost</em> over the course of one night. He doesn’t say what he’d said then -- mainly: <em>Bruce, what the hell?</em> -- but he must think it. Bruce smiles as he serves Harvey his tacos, sits next to him. He’s missed this kind of amicable silence, content to just <em>be</em>.</p>
<p>Eventually, Harvey shifts, turns to face Bruce halfway through a meal he looks like he’d needed. “So, um, how’re the kids?”</p>
<p>Bruce understands the impulse. Visiting hours never last long.</p>
<p>“They’re great! Dick’s, uh, still in Bludhaven, says he’s really close to making detective,” Bruce starts and can’t quite decide where he’s meant to go from here. Small talk at short notice has never been his speciality but he wants Harvey in, wants to share as much of his life as he can before-- they’re back to hands pressed against glass and guards looming at every corner. “Not sure where Jason is, actually, but he talks to Alfred sometimes so, also good, I’m assuming. Oh! Damian got the lead in a school play last Friday, Talia and Ra’s came--”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Harvey laughs, “Yeah, you told me about that.”</p>
<p>It’s been so long since he’s heard that laugh, it keeps throwing him off. Harvey, happy. Harvey, <em>actually </em>here. The thoughts speed through Bruce’s mind like headlines, disbelieving of his luck. </p>
<p>He tries to think of another anecdote, deems Joker finding an unknown dog on the property line as uneventful and Damian’s latest sleepover with Jon Kent as a little <em>too </em>eventful to capture in whatever time they have left. “We went to Disneyland a couple of weeks back, for Tim’s birthday,” is what Bruce finds most appropriate, “Alfred took some time off and Joker can’t-- can’t really fly, legally, I mean, so it was just me and the boys.”</p>
<p>It’d been fun, genuinely so; one of those things he couldn’t have accounted for with that trademarked reluctance to leave the city to its own devices.</p>
<p>And Bruce gets <em>animated </em>here, thrilled in spite of himself as he talks, “Did you know if you go early in the morning and buy a pickle first thing, you may just buy the first pickle of the day at Disneyland? Harv, the pickle lady gave me a pin that says<em> I’m Celebrating: First Pickle of the Day</em> and it may just have been the… the most exciting moment of my <em>life</em>!”</p>
<p>Harvey looks at him like he’s just been the victim of some sort of traumatic brain injury. He takes a moment to parse that.</p>
<p>“That’s-- <em>that’s</em> the most exciting moment of your life?”</p>
<p>With no real clue to what’s caused Harvey’s surprise, Bruce nods, undeterred in his enthusiasm. “You wanna see it?” he offers, sliding off the counter like he’s willing to dart off any moment now. Instead, Harvey’s laughing again, shaking his head as he goes back to his tacos.</p>
<p>“You’re still so… <em>you</em>,” Harvey says eventually, full of wonder, once he’s finished his meal and they’ve gone quiet again. He sounds <em>fond</em>, Bruce doesn’t know what to do with it, where to put all the warmth flooding his chest once it’s lodged in there again. It’s not his first time saying it tonight but he means it, it’s easy to see he means it, just as easy to feel the ache of lost years.</p>
<p>There was a time when Bruce would’ve rather been anyone else. He doesn’t think he minds it so much now.</p>
<p>“Could say the same about you, Harv.”</p>
<p>It strikes Bruce as true, now that he’s heard himself say it. They’ve both got something left of the inseparable boys that’d grown up together and never quite drifted apart, Bruce cherishes the vestiges that remain, keeps them close at hand. It’s still just the two of them, scars and all.</p>
<p>“Do you ever think about--”</p>
<p>“Yeah.”</p>
<p>There’s no need to let Harvey say it. What if he hadn’t left? What if he hadn’t been a coward that last night and every night since? It’s always hung unsaid between them. Bruce doesn’t want any more than he’s already got, he’s long past confusion when it comes to Joker but past regrets rarely stay buried for long. He thinks of it every time he sees Harvey and every time he’s forced to put a stop to Two-Face.</p>
<p>“I’ll try visiting more often,” Bruce offers. “Would that help?”</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>Harvey doesn’t say a thing about help and what that might entail. He never does. What he’d gone for, instead, was a hand clasped on Bruce’s shoulder and a murmured <em>thank you</em> about how Bruce’s never given up, as if he ever would. They’ve ended up back in the living room.</p>
<p>On occasion, Bruce has noticed, there’s a glint of confusion in Harvey’s eyes, as if he hadn’t counted on being here and the realisation keeps dawning. He doesn’t know if it’s the lack of meds, the late hour, everything they’ve been through. Bruce’s stomach is all tied up in knots, can’t get rid of the distinct impression that he’s done it now -- outlived past the end of their borrowed time. It’s almost enough to tempt him into suggesting a movie, for old time’s sake. Anything to keep sunrise at bay.</p>
<p>“Might sleep,” Harvey says, crashing hard on the couch. He’s even kicked off his shoes. Bruce can’t fight a smile.</p>
<p>Underneath, he also can’t fight a twinge of despair. It’s <em>ridiculous</em>. Bruce’s always known himself to be--</p>
<p>Well.</p>
<p>Clingy, one might call it. He doesn’t know why it feels like it’s that very same loss again and again. He’s never mourned properly, any of it. Not his parents. Not the accident. Bruce has never learned how to move on and he needs this moment to last, wouldn’t mind being stuck here, with Harvey, long enough to make up for it all.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” he agrees against the ache. “Yeah, you should.”</p>
<p>Harvey takes a good, long look at him, like he’s searching for something still unknown to Bruce. Whatever it is, he must find it because he sits up, oddly stiff, and--</p>
<p>And stands there.</p>
<p>And, a near minute later, pulls Bruce into a <em>hug</em>.</p>
<p>They both freeze, all at once. It’s not just unfamiliar, it’s unheard of. Too many years separated by glass, they’ve grown out of casual intimacy. In a manner of speaking, Bruce’s not sure they’ve ever had a firm grasp on it before. His teenage years had been inundated by fear and uncertainty, no way to know what <em>normal </em>boys felt for their best friends, whether he was meant to linger on every touch. He’d never had a friend before. Never had <em>anyone </em>before. It’s the one thing Bruce keeps coming back to, over and over.</p>
<p>Harvey’s his <em>someone</em>, even after all this time. He’s also remained a touch taller than Bruce, leaner from where his years on the streets have caught up to him but still solid and broad-shouldered enough, none of that softness inherent to Bruce’s somewhat husky disposition.</p>
<p>It takes barely any time at all for Bruce to melt into the embrace, holding Harvey tight and close, face buried in his scarred shoulder -- strange texture through a thin, cheap shirt. Bruce wouldn’t trade it for the world, throws himself into it with childhood desperation.</p>
<p>As far as hugs go, it’s a very lengthy one. To Bruce, it feels like no time at all until they’re parting and something lurches within himself.</p>
<p>“You really needed that, huh, big guy?” Harvey’s smiling one of his crooked smiles, amusement spilling over. Bruce smiles back, it’s all he can do to curb the urge to pull him back in his arms.</p>
<p><em>God</em>, Harvey still shines so bright.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Bruce admits, faintly embarrassed. “Okay, I’ll--” He coughs and wonders whether he’s flushed again as he gestures vaguely towards the door, “I’ll let you sleep.”</p>
<p>It might carry more weight than he intends it to.</p>
<p>Not a goodbye, not by any means, but it sure feels like one. He doesn’t know what they’re waiting for.</p>
<p>“I wanna give it another try,” Harvey says, suddenly serious. “Arkham, therapy, all that. I’m… sorry about tonight, Bruce. Well, not about <em>tonight </em>but you know what I mean.” Sorry for making him worry, is what Harvey means. It hits Bruce like the exhilarating reality of a dive off a skyscraper and, then, the stark awareness of what awaits below. Hope, it turns out, tastes just the slightest bit like blood.</p>
<p>“Anything, Harv. Anything you want, I’ll be there.”</p>
<p>Bruce says it with the urgency of that old vow, like he’s back on his knees with his father’s razor clutched tight between wounded fingers. He needs Harvey to know it means <em>too </em>much for him, the chance to have him close again, all that love left unspoken.</p>
<p>It <em>is</em> love, in its own way -- hard to grow up by anyone’s side without it. It’s a notion that’s never failed to make Bruce downright giddy.</p>
<p>“Drive me there in the morning?” Harvey asks, like it’s <em>easy</em>.</p>
<p>At first glance, certainly easier said than done. On more than one occasion, Batman’s walked Harvey to his cell, the cape and the cowl and the benefit of long-lasting goodbyes. It’s different as himself, more personal, harder to stick around when he feels himself tethering on the edge. It’s that day in the courtroom every time, the car crash spectacle of it all, losing Harvey to Two-Face over and over.</p>
<p>The asylum’s meant to help, Bruce knows and he’s yet to believe it. There <em>have </em>to be better options.</p>
<p>But.</p>
<p>If Harvey wants Arkham, if they’re due for another early morning silent drive, filled with all the enthusiasm of a death march and full of half-disproven hope-- Bruce’s not about to disagree. Harvey had been right about his newest medication, he’s been lucid all night, sentiment over mania. There’s no need to argue with the first results they’ve gotten in years.</p>
<p>He’s promised <em>anything</em>, even if it means relinquishing the night they’re quickly running out of. There are claw marks sunken deep in everything Bruce’s ever had to let go.</p>
<p>“Yeah.” The faintest sketch of a smile. “Yeah. I can do that.”</p>
<p>If Harvey wants <em>help--</em></p>
<p>Shouldn’t that be enough in and out of itself?</p>
<p>Bruce tells himself it <em>is</em> enough, has to be, and doesn’t deny himself the comfort of another hug. Harvey sighs against him, still reeking of alcohol and something medically stale because Arkham’s never too far away. Sometimes, and Bruce treasures those occasions, Harvey still smells of the very same cologne he used to wear in his DA days. It’s Bruce’s favourite smell, not currently present but fondly remembered in its absence. Again, he can’t let go.</p>
<p>“Hey,” Harvey whispers as they forcefully part, “I’ll get out one day. Fair and square.”</p>
<p>The thing is Bruce believes it. One hundred percent. Harvey had given him a life outside of an aimless vow and a reason to hold on to it, Bruce only ever wants to do the same in return. Nothing new there.</p>
<p>“I know you will,” he agrees, soft.</p>
<p>He stops in the doorway, looks back as Harvey makes himself at home on the couch, vaguely regrets not offering a change of clothes or a spare bedroom. It’s all upstairs, that’s his excuse, though it’d barely occurred to him to begin with, all tangled up in the flood of feelings Harvey’s social calls often provoke.</p>
<p>“Wake up early enough and I’ll make you breakfast,” Bruce adds. This, too, might be an excuse not to go just yet.</p>
<p>“<em>You</em>?” Harvey snorts, “Sure, pal, go ahead and call the morgue, tell ‘em I’ll be late.”</p>
<p>“Bane’s been teaching me!”</p>
<p>They both laugh at that, hard, and, even as they gradually fall silent, share a set of matching smiles. He’s never stopped feeling like the kid of so long ago, placing everything he’s got in his best friend’s hands. In the morning, Harvey might bolt. Hell, he might make a run for it as soon as Bruce’s out of the room, walk out on any cries for help and lost promises.</p>
<p>He might, however, also still be here, sleep-rumpled and awash with sunlight.</p>
<p>Bruce’s not stupid but he is, contrary to popular belief, a life-long optimist. It’s that possibility that keeps him grateful for what he’s gotten tonight.</p>
<p>“Goodnight, Harv,” he says as he turns around, turning off the lights on his way out.</p>
<p>“‘Night, Bruce.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>- title from "twin size mattress" by the front bottoms ("this is for the lions living in the wiry broke down frames of my friends' bodies/when the flood water comes, it ain't gonna be clear/it's gonna look like mud/but I will help you swim") because that felt tremendously bruce/harv<br/>- al's diner, where jeannie napier had once worked ;), is a universal constant we like to throw in every now &amp; again<br/>- the first pickle of the day quote comes from a youtube comment and was included on a dare but it's also kind of my favourite thing in the world<br/>- bruce is very sweaty. (jokes aside, my ideal bruce is chunky a la lee weeks' bruce)<br/>- i can't remember what else i wanted to write in here but. AGAIN: HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! LOV YA LOTS BUDDY</p>
<p>hope you all enjoyed! find me at @ufonaut on tumblr</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>